


The Art of Compromise

by imaginary_iby



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek thinking about his childhood, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth be told, Derek had never really been the sort to make concessions for other people.  Even as a child, barely knee-high to a grasshopper, he’d always been stubborn - an <i>ox in wolf's clothing</i>, his mother had called him every morning as she'd packed him off to school.  </p><p>Choosing a bed with Stiles, however, turned out to be one of the easiest decisions he'd ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Compromise

Truth be told, Derek had never really been the sort to make concessions for other people. 

Even as a child, barely knee-high to a grasshopper, he’d always been stubborn. His early life had revolved around little more than school and third helpings of dinner and mighty games of supernatural tag - he would forever remember darting between the sashaying skirts of the pack matriarchs, the oldest mothers of the Hale line’s varying genetic strands. 

Nevertheless, even at such a carefree age, he’d found it within to put his foot down about the simplest of things. He had loathed cucumbers with a passion, and whenever it was his night to prepare the salad he would stop at nothing to ensure the ghastly green things were nowhere to be found. He had timed a variety of routes to school, taking the utmost care to settle on the most efficient, and had insisted upon walking his little sisters home every evening according to his _own_ mental map. He had worn nothing but simple t-shirts and jeans, just daring his mother to try and put him into something uncomfortable, no matter the occasion. 

As he’d grown older, a gentle blend of pack dynamics and his mother’s soothing direction had slowly calmed his burning determination. Oh, every morning she would still declare that he was her stubborn little ox in wolf’s clothing, but he’d slowly learned the importance of seeing things from a variety of perspectives.

When the pack had passed painfully into history, his iron stubbornness, his fiery determination, his intense study of the world around him - they had each returned ten-fold. For years, he’d been unable to see anything beyond the haze of _doing what needed to be done._ For years, there’d been no room for anything less than complete and utter certainty. He didn’t negotiate. He didn’t concede the wisdom of another. It wasn’t the sort of man he had become.

And so, it was to nobody’s greater surprise than his own, that his life slowly unwound in the face of one Stiles Stilinski. Suddenly his days became a game of negotiation, a push-and-pull of listening to suggestions - sometimes gentle, sometimes cheeky, but _always_ a mile-a-minute. Suddenly there were alternate plans, alternate routes, to say nothing of the loathsome cucumbers that appeared on his plate whenever Stiles took it upon himself to cook dinner.

Stiles would always help him with research, but Derek knew that his request would be a lot better received if accompanied by a toasty hot-chocolate bribe. The months rolled on, and Derek learned that the best way to get Stiles to stop chattering in the misty midnight air, was to hand over his leather jacket. Tiny little nuggets of Stiles’ personality slowly worked their way into Derek’s consciousness and consideration, until finally one night Stiles cheekily announced that he would only consent to being werewolf-bait, if Derek promised to kiss him for good luck. Step by step, Derek learned the subtle - and sometimes not so subtle - art of negotiating with a Stilinski.

It was these bits and pieces, these _nuggets_ , that explained how Derek now came to lean against their bedroom door, arms and ankles gently crossed. Their bed was ridiculous - not necessarily in style, but in size. It was a simple chocolate wood, sturdy and strong, and carefully hand-made. It was a King, and oh how the pack had giggled upon seeing the size of the mattress. 

But they didn’t understand, not really. They saw an extravagance, something to facilitate sleepless sweaty nights and sloppy snoozy mornings. What they didn’t see, was the _compromise_ , the blending of different needs. To Derek, a bed meant sex and sleep, and, yes, the occasional snuggle. 

To _Stiles_ , it meant a home, an office, a kitchen table and a study; a spot to nap in, a sanctuary when sick and, indeed, a place to have sex. The pack didn’t see the way he sat contentedly cross-legged in the very middle, laptop on one knee and a bowl of cereal perched precariously on the other. The pack didn't see the variety of books scattered here and there; the bestiary and A Clash of Kings and To Kill A Mockingbird all resting spine-up on the quilts, just waiting for Stiles to pluck them up again as he flitted between narratives - to say nothing of the several stacks of college research papers that littered the outer edges of the mattress.

More often that not, the bed was often so cluttered that there was barely any room for Derek. The funny thing of it was - he didn’t mind. He just tucked himself in wherever he could fit, curled himself around the tangible knickknacks of Stiles’ brain, and was content to enjoy the gentle scratch of thin, agile fingers in his hair as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
